


Shenanigans

by marginaliana



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, this is cozy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere near the end of the fourth pint, Charlie finds himself proposing that David be his boyfriend for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

> Originated from an anon tumblr prompt. Thanks, whoever you are. Also many thanks to implicated2 for the beta.

"This might literally be the worst thing I've ever done," David says, wringing his hands as they stand on the stoop, waiting for Charlie's mum to answer the door. Charlie doesn't think he's ever actually seen someone wring their hands before, and so he gets a little caught up in watching the movement of David's pale, nervous fingers. 

After a moment, though, the silence registers, and he manages to mentally drag himself back to the conversation. "Oh, surely not," he says. "I mean, I've seen _Magicians_."

David gives him a supremely unimpressed look, but before Charlie can say anything else the door opens and his mum is there, smile stretching big and bright across her face as she says, "Boys, you made it safely. David, I'm so pleased to meet you at last. I'm sure Sam is gutted to be missing the chance. Oh, but you must be cold! Come in, come in," and then there's nothing for it but to just go onward and go in.

\-----

Charlie hatches the idea late at night, fresh off an awkward phone conversation with his mum about their upcoming monthly Sunday lunch. His dad's been gone a couple of years now, so despite a little bit of protest he never misses one if he can help it, does his best to schedule work commitments so he'll have time to stay over Sunday night and drive back Monday. Mostly he doesn't even mind it – his mum's cooking is great and he likes the smile on her face when he turns up, and it's nice to see his sister even if she's a tremendous pain in the arse sometimes – but there are certain things his mum just won't let up about, and it's all starting to be a bit... depressing. Humiliating. And like he's letting her down, too, which is maybe even worse than the rest of it.

After she finally rings off Charlie calls David immediately, desperate for a drink and some company that doesn't make him want to punch himself in the face. They meet up at Charlie's local, sliding into a booth in the back with a pint each and a basket of chips. It should be like any other night they'd gone out together – alcohol, sarcasm, and intermittent ranting about shit television.

Except that somewhere near the end of the fourth pint, Charlie finds himself proposing that David be his boyfriend for a while.

"I— I'm sorry, _what_?" says David, leaning back against the wooden wall of the booth, eyebrows raised, and Charlie thinks that the suggestion really must have been surprising enough to put David off his game. He'd expected a rather more scathing response than that.

"I don't mean—" he says, waving a hand vaguely between the two of them. "Just— you must get this shit as much as I do, yeah? 'Been out with anyone lately? When are you going to bring somebody home, then?' It's fucking endless."

David nods almost automatically, then seems to realize that he's doing it and jerks himself to a stop in an extremely adorable fashion. 

"So all I'm saying is, you come to lunch at my mum's place once a month, maybe stay overnight. I'll come to yours, if you do that sort of thing. Or I can be conveniently present to make phone small talk on pre-arranged occasions. The most we'd ever actually have to do is kiss a little. Nothing to it!" Okay, yeah, maybe he does actually feel a little pang of something distantly uncomfortable at the thought of kissing David, but it's probably just residual Britishness, just some remnant of cultural awareness that reminds him it's slightly weird to kiss your friends if you're not actually making a move on them. Nothing Charlie can't get past, if he's desperate enough. And he is. "Each of us gets to look slightly less pathetic than we are," he continues, "and you'll get free lunch besides. My mum's cooking is great and my sister isn't entirely insufferable. It's win-win!" 

"One small problem," David says, holding up two of his fingers in a gesture that's probably supposed to – metaporically – indicate the size of the problem. 

"I know, I know, I know," Charlie says, flapping a hand. "You're not actually gay. But you've kissed men for telly purposes, and surely this is a far, far better cause than that."

Other than that detail, David really is perfect for this – he's funny and smart enough to be plausible as an object of Charlie's affection, but he's also nice enough that Charlie's mum will love him and, more importantly, nice enough that he might actually agree to do it in the first place. 

David opens his mouth and then closes it again, does this a couple of times until Charlie is thinking strange, drink-muddled thoughts about goldfish. "And you are?" David asks finally.

"Well," Charlie says, drawing the word out a little. It hadn't quite occurred to him that he would have to actually _come out_ to David for this, but he supposes the cat's out of the bag now anyway, and it's not as if he's worried that David's going to be a dick about it. "More sort of just... basically un-picky? Equal opportunity, is what I'm saying." 

"How generous of you," David drawls, but his heart's clearly not in it, and after a moment he says, triumphantly, "What about publicity? I mean, I'm not exactly looking forward to the headlines in the Sun."

"We'll just tell mum and Sam we're keeping it quiet for now because of soulless paparazzi shitweasels," says Charlie. "Which isn't even untrue, in my case."

A snort from David concedes the point, but he still doesn't look satisfied. At last he says, "This really means that much to you? I mean... you can't just tell your mum to stop asking?" but it's weary, like he already knows the answer. Charlie fiddles with his nearly empty glass, tips it sideways to click against David's.

"It's no good," he says. "It's not even about the asking. It's just—"

"The way she looks at you," David says, finishing the sentence with a sigh. 

"Yeah."

For a moment their eyes meet. It's faintly disconcerting – for all they've been friends a couple of years now, Charlie hasn't really spent much time looking David in the eye, not like this. There's something warm about David's gaze, gentle even despite his normally sharp tongue. Charlie discovers that he's holding his breath.

If David says no – well, to be honest, if David says no then there's an end to the whole idea right there. Charlie could always ask someone else, but there _isn't_ anyone else, not really, not for this. He has plenty of friends, plenty of people to sit in pubs with and talk about video games or music with. But none of them will do, not even the single ones. Charlie can't imagine introducing Al to his mum or letting Vicky hear any of his embarrassing childhood stories, and he certainly can't picture Aisleyne sitting at his mum's kitchen table and tasting bits of stew out of the pot on the stove. With David, it would be easy. With anyone else, it would be impossible.

David bites his lip, a quick, nervous gesture. Then he sighs and says, "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" and Charlie feels a smile spread across his face.

\-----

"So, how did you two meet?" Charlie's mum asks, dishing up a spoonful of peas for David. 

"Erm," David says. "At a party?" He's sitting gingerly in his seat and looks like he's about ten seconds from running for the hills, in so far as he actually runs for anything. Charlie tries to look at his mum from David's point of view, tries to determine if she's mysteriously turned into David Cameron's secret lizard self, but all he can see is the same short woman with haphazardly combed hair that he's always seen. 

Still, maybe a little bit of action is in order. "I can't even remember which one," he breaks in. He kicks David none too gently under the table in the hopes that getting him a bit annoyed will prompt greater wit, the way it so often seems to do when he's on a panel show. "You know how it is. Telly types love any excuse to drink and talk shit." His mum cuts a sharp sideways glance at him, and Charlie shuts his mouth automatically. 

On second thought, maybe he can see why David would be a little intimidated. 

"You had friends in common, then?" she continues. David's plate acquires a hefty slab of shepherd's pie, large enough to make his eyes widen a little.

"Thank you," David says, sounding a little bit more sure of himself as he takes the plate, as if being offered food means he's under some sort of conversational protection. "Yes, I think it might have been Brian who introduced us, but we knew a lot of the same people. We were sort of just acquaintances for a while, and then friends." He pauses for a moment, setting the plate down in front of him and then, leaning abruptly forward, "You know, Charlie was the one who said something first. I thought he was quite brave, actually." His voice is low, unexpectedly sincere, and Charlie's stomach gives a little flip.

What would it be like, he wonders, to have that kind of warm approval directed at him for real? Probably pretty fucking good, judging by how it's making him react now. 

Either that, or he's just hungry. 

He goes to kick David's ankle again, but discovers that David has used the leaning to move his leg conveniently out of reach. The bastard. 

"Oh, _Charlie_ ," his mum says. She pats him on the arm, then grabs him a plate and dishes up an even larger slab of pie, because apparently romantic bravery is enough to earn a good helping. Charlie isn't complaining. 

"Thanks mum," he says, and then, deliberately turning the conversation, "So, how's your book group going?" Out of the corner of his eye he can see that David has taken a bite of shepherd's pie and is now wearing an expression of slightly dazed pleasure. Yeah, his mum's cooking kind of does that. "Have you murdered Mrs. Shaw yet?"

"Well, I've managed to restrain the urge to homicide," his mum says. "But if she mentions Kafka one more time, I'm slashing her fucking tires."

Watching David choke is really very satisfying.

\-----

He invites David over, a few days after the pub, veiling the invitation by mentioning a weird Belgian horror comedy that he'd just been sent on DVD. He figures David probably sees through the excuse pretty easily, given that he doesn't bother being even a little bit sarcastic about the prospect of watching foreign men with saws doing unspeakable things to cheerleaders _in French_ , but he agrees to come over anyway.

When David actually turns up that evening, the first thing he does is proffer up an absolutely massive bottle of scotch.

" _Bless you_ ," Charlie says, with feeling. He takes the bottle, holding open the door to let David come in.

"The film can't be that bad, surely," David says.

"You don't know many Belgians, then," Charlie says darkly. He leads David into the kitchen, opens a cabinet and tugs out two glasses. The sound of the liquid sloshing into the glass is a reassuring one.

They settle onto the sofa and make small talk for a while, trading stories of the worst films they've seen. David's still grinning from Charlie recounting the plot of _Dis – en historie om kjærlighet_ when Charlie finds himself blurting, "We should probably practice." The moment the words are out he takes a very large swallow of scotch in a feeble attempt to hide the flush that is spreading across his face. There's no actual reason for him to be embarrassed, of course. It's just a sensible idea, as David will surely agree, provided that he gives it thirty seconds of consideration.

"Practice?"

"You know. Practice. Erm. Kissing, and stuff."

"Should we?" David's eyes have gone wide and he sounds faintly alarmed by the prospect.

Charlie backpedals hastily. "Well, I mean. We want to be convincing, right?" It's going to be awkward, of course, because Charlie finds kissing _anyone_ a bit awkward, especially in public; he can't quite get past the ever-present awareness that he's touching someone else with intent. But there's an indefinable but significant difference between the 'I'm displaying physical affection in front of my mum' kind of awkward and the 'we've never touched each other before' kind of awkward. 

The look on David's face makes it clear that David doesn't necessarily want to be convincing – that, in fact, David is probably perilously close to disavowing the whole 'pretend to be dating Charlie' thing entirely. "Charlie..."

Charlie says, hastily, "Look, I already told my mum you were coming, so—"

"Oh _god_."

"It's fine! It'll be fine! There'll be shepherd's pie! And pudding! You'll enjoy yourself, I promise."

David makes an incoherent noise in the back of his throat. "You liked that film about the human centipede," he points out. "So pardon me if I worry just the tiniest bit about your ability to evaluate whether I'm going to enjoy something."

"Is that a no?" If it is, Charlie's well and truly fucked. They're supposed to be having lunch next weekend.

"It's— " David swipes a hand through his hair.

" _Please_ , David."

Something about his desperation must get through to David, because his face softens a little. "I— All right, all right. Fuck it, Charlie. I'm not going to back out now." Charlie heaves out a great breath of relief, but David carries right on before Charlie can say anything else. "But I don't see why we need to, erm. Practice."

Charlie stops to consider the idea – really consider it instead of just barging onward reflexively. On the one hand, it's not as if his mum is going to expect a proper snog just to prove it's real. On the other hand, they'll have to demonstrate _some_ signs of affection, otherwise he might as well just be bringing a mate by. Eventually he says, "Well, didn't you and Rob, y'know? When you did the Peep Show thing?"

"No?" David says, more of a question than an answer. 

" _Really_?" Charlie says, leaning forward in unconscious interest for a moment before he catches himself and leans back again. "I mean, that scene was, er. Very natural looking. Well, awkward. But a natural sort of— You really didn't rehearse that?"

"We _really_ didn't," David says, but there's an odd sort of smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. His gaze flickers over Charlie's face, down to the glass of scotch still clutched in his hand and then up again. Then he takes a deep breath. "All right. How should we—"

_Yes!_ Charlie thinks, and then, _Well, that is. Erm. Good. Practice is good._ After all, this is just rehearsal kissing and not actual kissing. Nothing to get too excited about.

Charlie sets down his glass on the coffee table and then sits up straight, angling himself a little bit sideways until their knees are just barely touching. Then he leans in. 

Their lips just barely touch. David's breath flutters shakily across Charlie's cheek, and then they're both leaning back, a little wide-eyed. Charlie licks his lips. 

It's David who leans in the second time, keeping his eyes open as he comes closer, closer. Charlie does, too, though it's hard to fight his usual 'Kiss Incoming!' instinct to just hide behind his eyelids and hope he doesn't fuck it up too badly. David's mouth is warm, soft. Accommodating. There's nothing dramatic or passionate about it, nothing but the kind of sweet, chaste kiss that he'd expect they might have to share in front of his family.

And yet when Charlie pulls away, he discovers that he's breathing just a little bit harder than usual. It had been a good kiss. Honestly, it had been a hell of a lot better than some of the proper kisses Charlie's had in his life.

"All right, then," he says stupidly. "Glad that's sorted. Erm. Shall I put the DVD in?"

"Yes," David says. "Yes. Good idea." He shakes himself. "Are you really going to make me watch a comedy about a Belgian axe murderer? Wait, are axe murderers different in Belgium? I mean, how many ways to murder someone with an axe can there even be?"

"It's a _saw_ , not an axe," Charlie says, faintly relieved to be back on more familiar ground. "You Philistine."

"Oh, _excuse me_ for my limited knowledge of murder weapons," David says, all prissy disdain, and Charlie slumps back against the sofa cushions and grins and thinks yeah, maybe they'll actually get away with it.

\-----

After dinner the photo albums come out, because although his mum takes no shit from the book club or the friends of the library committee, she's still a dreadful cliché in more ways than Charlie can be bothered to enumerate.

David – of fucking course – is deeply excited by the prospect of seeing all of Charlie's embarrassing childhood moments. Charlie protests a little, but it's mostly pro forma; his mum and David both look so delighted that he can't bring himself to expend any sort of serious effort to shut things down. It's entirely possible that David's interest is mostly for things he can use to blackmail Charlie with later. But it's not like he doesn't have enough material already, and anyway he certainly gives the impression of wanting to know about Charlie because... he wants to know about Charlie.

They're genuinely friends, so it's not as if there's anything weird about it. Nothing weird at all. So Charlie ends up at one end of the sofa with his arm slung oh so casually over David's shoulders, leaning in close to give occasional commentary. Like when they get to the picture of him, aged six and dressed in a frog costume for some sort of school costume day.

"That was _not my fault_ ," he says. "Seriously, David, I wouldn't like you to get the impression that I was so uncool as to voluntarily wear a frog costume."

"You couldn't possibly have been cool at age six," David says, giving Charlie a wry glance. "Wait, what am I saying? Of course you were already cool at that age."

Charlie preens a little at that 'already,' which certainly seems to imply that David thinks he's cool _now_. But his mum breaks in before he can get too pleased with himself. "Don't let him fool you, David," she says. "He was absolutely adorable, is what he was."

"I was ridiculous," Charlie says. "And by that point no one even knew who Charlton Rollnick even was, Mum. The only people that costume made sense to were you and Dad and the six other people in the world who'd memorized every episode of Bewitched. And none of them lived around here. At least Sam got to be a witch."

"We did have to do a fair bit of explaining," his mum allows. "And when I said we'd named Sam after a witch, Veronica Ayre thought your father and I were starting our own coven, which made the Friends of the Library meetings slightly awkward for a while."

"That's..." Charlie says, and then, giving her a startled look, "Is that why Ritchie Ayre never wanted to come over?" He hasn't thought about Ritchie Ayre in years, but he can still remember the odd look on the boy's face every time he'd turned down an invitation. 

"Oh, yes, I should think so."

"Mum! We were still fighting about that when I was sixteen!" He'd punched Ritchie in the face, actually, because he'd said his mum had told him Charlie's parents were a bit funny. 

"Well." She sniffs. "Veronica always did take things so personally."

Charlie huffs at her, but he can't be too outraged because David is laughing, not just a polite fiction of a laugh but his proper helpless cackle. It's always a triumph to get David to laugh like this, especially when he's been trying to be prim and polite, and so Charlie subsides against the back of the sofa and grins and reaches over to give his mum's shoulder a quick squeeze. "All right, all right," he says. He nudges David's knee with his own. "You must've dressed up as a kid, yeah?"

"It probably will not surprise you to learn that I dressed myself as an eighteenth-century nobleman at that age," David says, still smiling. "And there was a Star Trek period a bit later on, although the less said about that, the better."

Charlie finds himself rather hoping they'll carry on with this charade long enough for a reciprocal visit to David's parents; he can only imagine that wee David will have been even more adorable than adult David – if that's even possible.

"You should see Charlie's teenage years," his mum says. "I suspect that would trump almost anything." She closes the album with the frog picture and swaps it for another one off the coffee table, flipping through until she finds the section she's looking for. Charlie makes an exaggerated grimace and readies himself to be gently ribbed about his mohawk period. 

As they go further through the pictures, though, some of that amusement fades and he ends up saying less and less. He can't quite recognize himself in his hard-edged teenage body, in the hollow-eyed face that looks defiantly up at him from the parade of glossy pictures. This is what he's been picturing, every time he thinks of his adult self, and yet it isn't really like him at all. 

He has the sudden and disturbing realization that something in the last few years has mellowed him, a little. 

When had it happened? _How_ had it happened? The Charlie of fifteen years ago – maybe even of five years ago – would've sneered through all of this family stuff, even if he'd made a perfunctory effort not to show it for his mum's sake. Now it just seems like a basically not-unpleasant way to spend an hour or two, especially with David here.

He'd been so angry then, so defensive, so ready to spit on the idea of happiness. _And look at me now, leading my plump middle-class lifestyle. Sunday lunch at mum's and all sorts of telly friends, and a flat full of furniture that didn't even come out of a skip. Even pretending I've got a boyfriend. Christ._ For a moment he can imagine what the Charlie of back then would have thought of the Charlie of now; he'd have called himself a cheap sellout and that would've been the least of it. _I'd have despised myself for being friends with David, too. I'd have thought him repressed and ridiculous._ The thought makes his heart sink.

He only realizes that he's gone actually silent when David reaches over oh so casually and sets a hand on his knee. The thick fabric of Charlie's jeans means he can't actually feel anything but the weight of it, but even so, it's comforting. Just as suddenly as the rush of panic had appeared, it fades. Somehow it doesn't seem quite so bad to have mellowed this far, not if it means he doesn't have to jump for something reflexive and sarcastic every time something nice happens. _I'm all right_ , he thinks fiercely. _I'm all right, and I'm sure as fuck not going to give that up just because I used to be a miserable little shit. And maybe... maybe when we get home I really will go out and find someone to date._ He blows out a breath. _Then I could have this for real._

Without letting himself overthink things, Charlie slides his hand up to the back of David's neck. From there it's a simple matter to lean in and press a swift, soft kiss to David's cheek. When he pulls back David doesn't look at him, but there's a tiny little flush rising in his cheeks as he asks Charlie's mum about the next picture. 

\-----

"Does he like pineapple?"

"Mum," Charlie sighs. It's Friday afternoon; he has the phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder so that both hands are free to play Call of Duty (muted, of course, although he's pretty sure his mum isn't completely oblivious).

"It's a relatively straightforward question, Charlton. I'm going to the shops this afternoon and I want to make sure I know what to get."

"I don't— why would I know if he likes pineapple?"

"Well, I'm assuming you've had dinner together once or twice, and it's the sort of thing that might come up. Or is it not that kind of relationship?" The sly intonation in her voice makes it completely clear what she means. 

" _Mum!_ " Charlie sits up straight in involuntary outrage, then has to drop the controller and scramble to catch the phone as it slides off his shoulder. On the screen, the player character fumbles his machine gun and then starts performing a series of squats behind a barrel. Charlie sighs and shoves the phone back to his ear. 

"Or perhaps you tried to ask him about it," his mum continues, "but you discovered he was deaf in one ear?"

Charlie nearly drops the phone again. "For fuck's sake, mum, are you ever going to let that go?"

"Of course not," she says, but it's fond, and suddenly Charlie feels more than a little bit guilty – for playing a game and being distracted when she called, for lying about seeing someone and lying again about David in particular. Maybe he ought to just own up now, take the hit for being a horrible son before the thing goes any further. It's not like he hasn't disappointed her a million times already in his life.

"I know I'm driving you a little bit crazy here," his mum says softly. "It's just... I'm so happy that you're finally happy, love. You don't know what it means to me."

Charlie opens his mouth, then closes it again. _For fuck's sake_ , he thinks. He can't bring himself to ruin it now. "Thanks, mum," he says finally. 

"Besides, do you want me asking _David_ these questions? You could just give me his email address."

"Oh Christ no," Charlie says. "I— look, it's new, okay, mum? Really new. So don't— Try not to give him the third degree, yeah?"

"But I have the spotlight and the polygraph and the duct tape all lined up and ready!"

This time when Charlie drops the phone, it's intentional.

\-----

After the photo albums Charlie helps his mum with some computer issues and there is pudding, a nice cake and ice cream and coffee (all of it made entirely without pineapple). By the time they've finished it off night has fallen and it's beginning to sleet outside, making a soft shushing noise against the windows. 

"You will stay tonight," Charlie's mum says, and it's more a statement than a question. 

Charlie meets David's eyes across the table, mouths 'pancakes, I promise,' and gets a roll of the eyes and a nod in return. "Of course, mum."

"Good, good. I'll go and make up the bed for you."

She disappears up the stairs. Charlie eyes the sleet through the window and then sighs. "I'll get our bags, I suppose."

"Charlie!" hisses David.

Charlie pauses halfway through standing up, glances over and sees that David is looking distinctly agitated. "What?"

"I—" David starts, then stops and throws a paranoid glance towards the stairs. "I'll help you," he says.

Charlie shrugs and lets David follow him to the front hall where they shrug on their shoes and coats. As soon as the front door shuts behind them, David says, "Bed. As in, bed, singular?"

"Well. Yeah." Charlie shrugs again. "Look, we talked about this. And you didn't raise too many objections to staying over when I called yesterday. Not after I mentioned the pancakes."

"That was because I didn't realize your mum would put us in the same room, the same bed! I thought we'd get two rooms, perhaps a nice little lecture about there being absolutely no shenanigans under this roof!"

"I—" Charlie says, and then, "Hold up, hold up. _Shenanigans_? This is Brightwell-cum-Sotwell, not nineteen fifty seven."

David rolls his eyes. "Well, I didn't exactly think your mum would tell us we weren't allowed to fuck," he says sharply.

"Oh, she would say 'fuck,'" Charlie says. "She absolutely would."

"That is not the point!"

"Then what _is_ your point?" Charlie asks. "It's just sleep, David. It's a decent sized bed. I don't snore, or kick, or hog the blankets." David still looks quite annoyed, and Charlie's heart sinks as something unpleasant occurs to him. "Look, if it's the whole sort-of-queer thing you're worried about, I promise not to molest you in your sleep," he says. It comes out considerably more bitter than he'd intended. 

David's mouth falls open. "That's not— For Christ's sake, Charlie, of course not. I'm—" He looks over his shoulder at the door, then tugs Charlie in the direction of the drive. Charlie rolls his eyes but follows him out to the car, shivering a little as the sleet begins falling on his face and down the back of his coat. He tugs the collar up, digs the car keys from his pocket. 

He doesn't quite want to admit how relieved he is at David's reflexive denial. It's not that he'd thought David was going to turn out to secretly be a homophobic arsehole, not really. Especially given that David had agreed to this whole thing in the first place. It's just that he _likes_ David, likes him maybe more than he's liked any of the other friends he's made in his pathetic little life. It's not really normal for Charlie to like people this much. Or, when it comes to it, for the person he likes to put up with him for this long. 

He can't help wondering just how long he's got left before the inevitable happens, whether he'll manage to drive David off before David gets bored on his own. 

His hands are cold and it takes him a moment to get the key into the lock of the boot. It clicks open with a heavy thunk. 

"Look, I'm really not as straight as you seem to think I am," David says finally. 

It takes a moment for the words to register; when they do, Charlie lets go of the boot lid in surprise and nearly gets whacked in the face for his inattention. "What, really?" he says.

David snorts. "I promise you, I'm entirely certain."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Do I?" David says darkly. "Please, feel free to tell me more about just exactly what I know."

"Well, you've never said anything before!" says Charlie. He's aware that he's basically just digging himself in deeper, but the ability to shut up when necessary has never been one of his strong points. 

"Neither did you, until two weeks ago!" David says, and then, taking a deep breath, "Look, it never came up. I just— I don't want you to think that I don't want to do this because I'm some sort of homophobic arsehole."

"So why _don't_ you want to do it?" Charlie asks, making a desperate attempt to turn the accusatory tone of the conversation back onto David. "If it's not the queer thing..."

David stares at him for a long moment. In the dim light of the drive, the droplets of sleet in his hair have begun to glitter like intermittent television static. Then all at once his shoulders sag. "You know what? You're right," he says, sounding tired. "I— you're right. It will be fine."

"You're sure?" Charlie asks. "I mean..." He's not entirely sure why he's moved to offer this now, especially since David appears to be giving in. "We probably could make an excuse, if you really don't want to stay."

"No, it's fine," David says, and then, straightening up, "I don't want to disappoint your mum. In any case, I've been informed there will be pancakes."

For some reason that doesn't make Charlie feel better. But he tugs their bags out of the boot anyway, thumps the lid down and takes his keys without saying anything else. David follows him back to the house, toes off his shoes neatly and hangs his coat beside Charlie's on the hook; by the time he's done all of that, the smile is back on his face. He looks very nearly as cheerful as he had done during the cake portion of the evening. 

It's slightly weird to be reminded that David can actually act, when he puts his mind to it. But Charlie doesn't have much of a chance to brood over it; his mum comes down a few moments later, talking about towels and how to work the coffee machine if they're up before her in the morning. Charlie takes it all in on autopilot, smiles when he needs to and kisses his mum goodnight before heading up the stairs with his bag.

They take turns in the loo, David first. Charlie finishes brushing his teeth and changing into shirt and boxers, and slips into the guest room – his bedroom, once upon a time, though it's long since been stripped of all the band posters and painstakingly-inked cartoons that had made it his own. 

David is in the bed already, on the far side, covers pulled primly up to his chin so that only the collar of his pajamas shows. He offers Charlie a wry smile – nothing like the delighted grin of an hour and a half ago or even the fake cheer of ten minutes past. Just a small smile. Maybe a little bit sad.

Charlie offers him a similar smile in exchange, mainly because he hasn't got any better idea how to salvage the situation. He gets into bed without speaking, turns off the light.

Then he lies there in the dark for a long time, knowing he's missing something.

\-----

"You packed, then?"

Charlie can hear David sigh at him through the phone line. "Yes, of course. You're coming by at eleven?"

"Yeah." To be honest, they'd worked out all of these details days ago. "The weather looks pretty shit," Charlie says, mainly just to be saying something. "I expect Mum will want us to stay over. But that means pancakes so it'll definitely be worth it."

"Well—"

"Look, I just wanted to say thanks," Charlie blurts, before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn't usually do sincerity, but he feels like he owes David this much at least. "I'm— I know this is whole thing is weird and a tremendous pain in your arse but there is literally no one else I would trust to do this with me. And I really, really do appreciate it."

For a moment, the words hang in the air like a particularly stubborn odor. Then David huffs and said, "You realize this means you owe me, don't you? I'm thinking of that live election show that Jimmy's been talking about."

"Oh god, not live television," Charlie moans, but it's relieved. "David, if you really want me to have a nervous breakdown in front of the entire nation, there are almost certainly easier ways to achieve that."

"Maybe live television _with spiders_ ," says David. "I'm sure there's an election metaphor in there somewhere."

\-----

Charlie wakes up in the morning to warm breath puffing softly across his face. When he opens his eyes, he finds David's face alarmingly close – so close, in fact, that he can see every single one of David's dark, perfect eyelashes where they touch the pale skin beneath his eyes. David in sleep is weirdly vulnerable-looking, somehow stripped of his ability to emotionally eviscerate the deserving with a well-placed sentence. There are lines on his cheek from the pillowcase and his hair is rumpled every which way. It sticks up in the back.

The realization happens quite slowly. But eventually – after Charlie spends three or four minutes just watching David sleep – it occurs to him that David really is rather attractive. That Charlie wouldn't mind watching him like this for a bit longer, _definitely_ wouldn't mind waking up next to him like this again, especially if the night before had been a bit more active than photo albums and tech support and cake. He doesn't want to go home and find someone else to date. He wants to date David, repression and prissiness and all.

_When the fuck did that happen?_ Charlie wonders. They're good friends, of course they are, but he hadn't thought he'd be in any danger of falling for David because— because—

Actually, he can't think of a single reason. 

David is good looking, funny, friendly, generous with his time, adorable when scandalized and absolutely sexy-as-fuck when he's on form. The only thing Charlie can think is that he'd just _liked_ David so much that he hadn't let himself notice the rest, hadn't let himself open up the possibility of making a move and being inevitably shot down. 

Except now he's gone and fucked it up anyway, watched it turn to shit in his hands just like everything else he's ever tried to hold onto. So much for happiness.

David's eyes slit faintly open; when he catches sight of Charlie his mouth stretches into a soft, sweet smile. Charlie smiles back, stupidly. But he can see the moment when David wakes all the way, when his expression shutters into something carefully neutral. 

"Morning," David offers. He sits up, scrubbing at his hair. 

"Why did you even agree to this?" Charlie hears himself ask. He rolls over on his back so that he can look up at David directly.

"I'm— Sorry, what?" asks David. "Is this how morning pleasantries usually work for you?"

"Yes, yes, I fully stipulate I am shit at being a decent human being. Why did you agree to come?" 

David sputters for a moment, then says, "Because I was absolutely rat-arsed. Why are you asking me this?"

"Oh, come on," Charlie says. "I've seen you do the Guardian crossword in ten minutes when you were far more pissed than that." He doesn't really know why he's asking David this, either, except perhaps out of a perverse desire to crush his own hopes even more thoroughly. If he's going to feel bad then he's bloody well going to feel terrible, going to wallow in it until there's nothing left of anything else.

"Well— because you looked pathetic, then!"

"I always look pathetic," Charlie drawls. "That's basically just my face."

"For fuck's sake, Charlie," David says, and before Charlie can do more than sputter at this, David leans down and kisses him.

It's an awkward kiss, maybe even more awkward than their tentative practice kiss on the sofa a week ago. David's nose is smashed into Charlie's cheek and his breath is a little sour. But to Charlie, all of that might as well be a singing choir of angels, bathed in golden light and dancing the hula. He lifts a hand to David's shoulder, slides it up to cup the back of his neck. David makes a faint noise of surprise at the touch, startling back a little, but Charlie hangs on and kisses him back as searchingly as he can, trying to put all his sincerity into it. He might not be able to say how he feels – most of his previous attempts at saying romantic things to people have ended up grotesque or tragic or some combination of the two – but he can kiss, he can touch. And David's hair is so very warm and soft against his palm. 

When David finally does pull away, they're both breathing hard. Charlie drops his head back to the pillow, but he slides his hand down over David's shoulder to his chest, letting his fingers rest just where the vee of his pyjama top exposes a hint of skin. David flushes brightly, but after a moment he puts his hand on Charlie's leg, just above the knee.

"David," Charlie murmurs. He probably shouldn't press his luck.

"What?"

Oh, what the hell. He's definitely going to press his luck. "What would you say to engaging in some shenanigans?"


End file.
